


No Dessert

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, Slow Dancing, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve asks you to dance, but the dance you give him is not the one he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dessert

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: [Moose](http://earlgreylavenderr.tumblr.com/) prompted this pairing and “slow dance” from [the intimacy/domesticity meme](http://ficmemes.tumblr.com/post/99693567398/cuddle-up-a-little-closer-a-domesticity-intimacy) and I thought a lap dance to Billie Holiday would be an interesting take.

Steve steps up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. He kisses the side of your neck and the top of your shoulder and presses his lips there, right where the collar of your dress slips over a little, right where he knows you’re sensitive. He smiles against your skin.

“Do you want to dance?”

He’s not nearly as bad as it as he claims. Dancing isn’t all that different than fighting, really, and he’s good at that; the handful of times you’ve danced, he hasn’t stepped on your toes at all. And Billie Holiday is good for the dancing he likes, the slow swaying shuffle around the living room.

“Yes.” You flip the record jacket over and read the track list. You only recognize a few of the titles, songs you’ve burned into your mind over the last few weeks. They’re not close enough together to make putting on the record helpful. You feel a pang of regret. You didn’t want to resort to using the playlist on your phone, but you’d made it because you weren’t sure you’d be able to use one of the actual albums from his shelves.

He nips at the curve of your neck. “It doesn’t have to be that. We can listen to whatever you want.”

As if listening to classic jazz is a hardship or something. Smiling, you lean away to slide the record back into its place on the shelf. You turn in his arms and wrap yours around his shoulders. His hands, big and warm and sure, settle on your hips. He pulls you closer and starts to sway as he leans in for a kiss.

“We don’t even really need music,” he says, just before he covers your mouth with his.

You laugh a little against his lips. He’s sweet and hot and even shameless, a pleasant surprise once you’d gotten past how awkward he was in the beginning, when things between you were new and fragile. You push your fingers through his hair and let him kiss you, his lips warm and his tongue hot, let him pull you closer and closer until you’re pressed tight to the front of him. When you’re breathless and he lets you break away just to catch your breath, you smile up at him.

“I’ve got a better idea.”

His hands slide down just a little so he can grip the curve of your ass. “What’s better than dancing with no music?”

You just shake your head and kiss him lightly one more time before you step out of his arms. “You’ll see.”

He reaches for you. “Do I have to wait?”

“Yes.” You plant a hand on the center of his chest and  _push_.

He falls back into the waiting wingback chair. It’s not exactly like the one you practiced with, but it’ll do. You prepared for it, anyway. Praising yourself for the foresight to leave your phone on the table next to it, you lean in to kiss him again, a taste and a promise, and with one hand flick on the lamp there and palm your phone. You leave him sitting there, a little dazed, and pull away.

“What–” he starts.

You thumb the Bluetooth on your phone to life and pull up your music player. You peek over your shoulder at him as you reach for the stereo and push the button to switch the input. “You’ll see,” you say again.

Steve stares at you for a moment, considering. He settles back in the chair, expression amused and curious. “All right,” he agrees.

Sometimes he listens.

Your phone syncs with the speakers and when you’re sure it’s set up, you give yourself just a moment to breathe in and out. This is it. You’re doing this. You hit play on your phone’s screen and set it aside. As the first strains of “Moanin’ Low” fill the room, you remind yourself that you have three minutes.

You flash him a smile you hope looks as flirty and mysterious as it feels and tell him, “Wait right there.” You start for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?”

When you glance back, he looks like he’s ready to get out of the chair and follow you.

You  _tsk_  at him. “A girl’s gotta freshen up, Cap. Don’t be rude.”

He huffs a laugh and relaxes to wait for you.

You shut the bathroom door and take a moment to collect yourself. You don’t have long, so you get to work. The lipstick is red, some ridiculous name like  _Liberty_  or  _Victory_  swirled under a number on the bottom of the tube. You let your hair down from the loose messy bun and shake it out so it curls around your face. You lean in close to the mirror and smudge your eyeliner with your fingers. It’s not as authentic as your lipstick, but it makes your eyes look big and dark and that’s what you want. After that you open the next button on your shirtdress just to flash the lace at the top of your new bra, and you dab just a bit of the perfume at the hollow of your throat and in your cleavage. Just that little bit makes the tiny bathroom smell of white flowers. The last step is the one that gives you butterflies: slipping into the heels you stashed when you left your makeup bag. They’re as red as your lipstick and the high narrow heels make your legs look a mile long. You give yourself a quick once-over in the full length mirror on the back of the door. It’s good. So far, everything looks just the way you planned. You kill the light in the bathroom and step out.

Lady Day is good for this because she’s got the rhythm you need and the soul you want. You walk toward him, slow, hips swinging to the beat of the song. You’re a  _goddess_. You’re a  _vision_. You’re a surprise, clearly, because his eyes go wide and his jaw drops.

Steve’s hands curl at the arms of the chair. “What–” he starts, but that’s as far as he gets.

Halfway to him, you pause to dip and sway. His eyes follow the path of your hands from your knees, up your thighs, over your hips and higher until his gaze is locked with yours.

“I said I wanted to dance.”

He sits back and nods. You have his undivided attention, it seems. You decide to pretend that doesn’t make you as shaky inside as it really does. You turn away and lift your hands to open a few more buttons at the top of your dress. When you peek over your shoulder, his eyes slide down your legs and linger at the shoes. He looks back up, quickly, and realizes he’s caught; he blushes.

“Where’d… Um. Where’d you get those?”

Smiling, you turn and start stalking toward him, each step, each sway of your hips in time with the song.  _God_ , you hope you look as graceful as you’re supposed to look. Everything was fine in the mirror when you practiced, but–  _No._  You’re not going to worry. Not with him looking at you like that.

You tell him, “A lady never reveals her best secrets,” and since you’re close now, you bend right over in front of him and plant your hands on the arms of the chair. His face is so close.

He looks like he needs a kiss, or maybe oxygen. “This isn’t the dancing I had in mind.”

You wink at him. “Give me a few minutes.” You lean in closer to hold your lips near his ear. “No touching.”

He gives a breathless laugh and closes his eyes for just a moment. “That’s not fair.”

You kiss his lips so lightly you don’t even leave a smudge of lipstick and pull away just far enough to turn around.

His legs are spread wide enough for you. You rest your head back on his shoulder and roll your body in one long wave, braced with your shoulders against his chest and running your hands from your breasts to your hips. He exhales, long and shaky, and you hear the heartfelt curse he mutters under his breath.

This is working.

Still braced against him, you finish unbuttoning the top of your dress and tug it open to reveal the new bra. He gasps and his hands come up, then fall again back to the arms of the chair. He almost deserves a reward for that. But he’s not getting it yet. You pull yourself up without holding on to anything and stand between his spread knees. You take the time to run your hands up your body, touching yourself like he might, and into your hair so you can tousle and tug. Then you work down, bending forward, slow, so slow, and when you’ve got your fingers wrapped around your ankles you shake your hips just a little.

With your eyes closed as they are, you think you can hear him better. Hear the shift of his weight in the chair and the little gasp. He’s seen, then; you’re not sure how he could avoid seeing, as short as the dress is when you’re bent in half like this. You peek around your knee and his hand is off the arm of the chair again, reaching for you, and you  _want_ it. You want him to set his hand on your thigh and slide those fingers up, up, push the dress over your hips and tug your panties aside and dig those long strong fingers into you. But his hand falls away and he exhales a shaky breath and he doesn’t touch you and he doesn’t say anything.

You stand up as the first song ends.  _Good._  You’re right on time.

You take a few steps away and turn to face him, and he’s staring right at you. He doesn’t seem to hear the music at all. Eyes on his face, you start back, opening one of the last remaining buttons for each step forward until you’re standing between his spread-wide knees. Those jeans don’t do much at all to hide the semi he’s sporting. If the look on his face didn’t convince you this was going well, that bulge certainly would. The dress is open now, so with your shoulders back and your chest forward, you peel it off your arms and toss it away. His eyes roam all over newly-bare skin, and then you’re sliding your hands down your body, giving him a path to follow with his eyes. It’s easy to sway and rock to the song, to just be seen by him. He leans forward a little. Your skin burns for his touch, but  _not touching_  is part of the fun.

_Anticipating_  is part of the fun.

More of the fun is leaning forward and planting your hands on the back of the chair, just behind his head. Your body is bowed over his and when he tips his head back, you can smile down into his face. You move, undulating to the rhythm.

He gives a wry smirk. “Is this punishment for not having dessert?” he asks drily.

Laughing quietly, you sink all the way to your knees between his legs and drag your fingers down his inner thighs. With your hands on his knees, you push up, your body held inches away from his, and hold your mouth just over his as if you’re going to kiss him.

“You should know better.”

He says your name and lifts his hands, but you spin away and dance just out of his reach. The game is nearly over.  _God_ , you’re aching for it. Aching for  _him_. This is pure torture and you’ve done it to yourself. One song ends and the last begins, and after a slow deep breath, you move back to him. He just tips his face up and looks at you, hot dark eyes and like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. You straddle his lap and settle low enough to run your hands from his wrists to his shoulders and keep going, far enough to brace your hands on the chair over his head. Your body is a canopy over his and as you stare down into his face, the air between you heats up and fills with the scent of your perfume.

You’re writhing on his lap. It’s dirty and wrong and so,  _so_  good, the rocking roll of your hips like he’s inside you for real, the flex of your thighs like you’re trying to bring yourself closer to him. You push yourself up, kneeling in the chair, and you put one hand in his hair because you can’t  _not_  touch him anymore. The other you reach behind yourself with to open your bra. You slide it off, slow, slow, teasing both of you. His cock twitches in his pants against the inside of your thigh. You drop your bra on the floor beside the chair and roll your hips a few more times, sinking slowly, slowly, timing it so when the song ends and the living room falls silent, you’re settled on his lap, your hips flush to his.

You lean in to kiss the side of his neck and try to hide so he can’t see your face. Now that the music is over, the shyness is back.

“What did you think?” you ask quietly.

He reaches up to fist his hand in your hair and he pulls you back, gently. His face is there before you can say anything and he’s kissing you, slow and deep and so, so hot. His mouth is red and wet when he pulls away.

He just scoops you into his arms as he stands. “I’m not sorry I didn’t have dessert,” he says.

He doesn’t break eye contact at all as he carries you to the bedroom.


End file.
